Locate, Observe, Report
by mongoose-bite
Summary: The Dragonborn has revealed himself, but the Eye of Magnus remains undisturbed. Quaranir goes to Skyrim in person to investigate, and winds up a little bit more involved than he bargained for.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: All characters and places are the propety of Bethesda Softworks. No money is being made. Please note, this story will contain scenes of a sexual nature.

* * *

Quaranir first saw the Dragonborn through the magical haze of the manascope, while several of his colleagues worked hard to tune and focus the damn thing. The arrival of the Dragonborn, they knew, should herald the return of an artefact of great power to the world. Thus, they had set up certain wards and alarms, that were tripped when a new voice Shouted in dragonspeak to the world.

Roused from his bunk by this alarm, Quaranir had flung his robe over his sleeping clothes, and hurried down the tiled passageways and marble staircases to the room that housed the huge manascope. The lens, so often turned towards the stars, or more recently towards Summerset Isle, was now turned towards Skyrim, and a breathtaking vista of snow-capped peaks slid across the polished glass.

"Two seven four, two seven five, two seven five and a third, two seven five and a seventh-"

Quaranir didn't interrupt. He simply waited and watched as other monks arrived, those woken by the commotion or simply staying up late.

There! Fire in the dried grass, a ruined building, guards, sky, a smouldering dragon skeleton – instinctively Quaranir leaned forward, as if that would give him a glimpse of the Dragonborn any sooner. The picture wheeled about, the monks muttering.

Finally, the picture steadied. Quaranir couldn't help but feel a slight stab of disappointment. The Dragonborn was barely a man. He was looking at a slight, skinny young Imperial who wore an unhappy expression as the guards explained something to him. He was dressed in ragged clothes in an Imperial style that had originally been quite expensive, and he clutched a wooden bow like it was his only friend.

He looked scared and cold and generally miserable. He had ash on one side of his face and his lip was bleeding. His short, dark hair was sticking up this way and that and in general he looked like a kicked dog. Quaranir felt a little sorry for him.

The image drew back a bit, and Quaranir was going to give the order to shut it off and give the attendants a much needed rest when the Dragonborn looked around, his gaze sweeping the plains of Whiterun. And for a moment, he seemed to look directly at Quaranir. It was an illusion, of course, as the manascope watched but did not manifest in any way itself. Although Quaranir knew this he found himself rooted to the spot, pinned by a dark, observant gaze.

It was only when the Dragonborn turned his attention back to the road in front of him that Quaranir managed to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth.

"That's all we need to know for now," he said. "I'm satisfied with the visual confirmation." He scribbled down a few hasty notes, but at this stage there was very little to say. Nevertheless, in a meeting the next morning, he said it.

"I'm happy to confirm that our predictions have been accurate so far. However, the Dragonborn appears very young and unsure of himself. I believe we still have some time before we need to concern ourselves; weeks at least, possibly months. Winterhold is a long way from Whiterun." They would wait and study the flow of magic across Skyrim, while the Dragonborn stumbled forward towards his fate.

The weeks turned into months, and Quaranir had many other projects to divert him while he waited for some development on the Dragonborn front. Only occasionally did he recall those piercing eyes and wonder how the young man was getting on in Skyrim. Eventually, however, he began to grow concerned, as did the other monks.

"He's not dead, is he?" Tandil asked. Several monks had gathered in one of Quaranir's favourite locations: the garden of fountains near one of the three libraries. It was a peaceful spot, and dappled sunlight warmed the Altmer monks as they sat and poured tea into glass cups.

Quaranir shuffled some parchment. "Our sources report plenty of rumours about the Dragonborn and the increased number of Dragon attacks. We've no reason to believe he's dead. We've checked and rechecked the equipment, but there's definitely no problem on our end. The...object remains dormant. Or, possible but less likely, someone is shielding its presence from us."

"How likely is that?"

"Not very. The Thalmor are sniffing around the College, but the locals aren't making them feel welcome – at least according to what reports of theirs we've managed to intercept."

"Well just summon him up on the manascope again. Find out what he's up to."

Quaranir shook his head, "That would be an ideal solution, unfortunately it seems to be impossible at this time. We tracked him via his first use of dragonspeech, but with the Greybeards' increased activity, and the constant conversations among the dragons themselves, we simply can't get a clear location."

It had been a source of some frustration for Quaranir, and he'd even gone as far as commandeering the manascope for as long as he could and tracking down dragonspeech randomly, hoping to find the Dragonborn by sheer luck. Mostly, what he saw were dragons, and as exciting as the images were, they weren't very useful. He knew he was wasting time and resources.

There had to be a better way.

Quaranir drummed his long fingers on the carved wooden table. "We may need to think outside the box for this one," he said. "Our usual lines of enquiry are stretched too thin when we try to reach into Skyrim."

Nerian leaned back in his chair, watching Quaranir with a faint smile. The two had been friends for many decades now, and Nerian could tell when Quaranir was hatching a plan.

"Well, what do you suggest?" he asked.

"I think," Quaranir said carefully, knowing this would be an unorthodox suggestion at best. "We might have to send someone in person."

There were sharp intakes of breath around the table. "Are you sure that's wise?"

"Frankly, no. But I can't think of anything better. It wouldn't break our policy of non-interference; we simply locate the Dragonborn, observe him, and report back."

"You'll have to be discreet; our existence must remain a secret to as many people as possible."

"Well, I'm aware of that – wait, me?"

"Who else, Quaranir?" Nerian drawled. "You have seniority with this project, and it was your idea."

"Well I-" That did make sense. Quaranir was not known for hesitating when the course of action was clear. "Better see if I can get authorisation," he finished.

He did. And so Nerian found him sitting on his bunk, pulling on a pair of sturdy fur-lined boots. He'd travel as light as possible, but he still had a bag full of notebooks and potions with him.

"Look at you," Nerian leaned on the door frame, "ready for the snow. The real question is, are you ready for the civil war their hatching over there? Not to mention the dragons, and the fact that Nords have every reason to hate Altmer, _and_ the lousy food."

"I was not anticipating a holiday," Quaranir said with a frown. "I just hope this is the right thing to do."

"That's up to you, isn't it? Don't worry; just stay out of sight and it'll be fine. Where do you plan to start?'

"Whiterun. It seems logical, does it not? I had considered Winterhold but the fact is it's the only place we know he's _not_."

"Good luck," Nerian said sincerely.

"Thank you. Hopefully I won't be gone long."


	2. Chapter 2

The Psijic Order had maintained and protected magical knowledge that had been lost to the rest of Tamriel, and Quaranir expended some of his considerable magical power to teleport himself instantly across the vast distance to Skyrim. He had to admit, as apprehensive as he was about the success of his mission, he was also looking forward to setting foot in the wider world again, seeing what had changed and what had remained the same.

As the flakes of magicka settled around him like snow and vanished, his first impression was one of biting cold. He stamped his feet and tucked his hands into his sleeves; first order of business would be finding some gloves.

He'd aimed for and arrived at an unobserved patch of ground close to Whiterun, and he could see Dragonsreach rearing proudly in the weak afternoon sunlight, and the walls of the city were close by. With nothing to gain by waiting around he set off at a brisk pace, and soon arrived at the gates of Whiterun.

He received plenty of odd looks and the occasional suspicious glare and for the first time he wondered if the Psijic Order robes might be a touch gaudy. But he wasn't challenged and was able to buy some gloves from the trading post near the markets. He asked the Breton behind the counter about the Dragonborn, and was delighted to hear that the man himself had been spotted around town as little as two days ago.

"Sold me some nice furs too, if you're interested."

"Maybe some other time." Quaranir was pleased he was making such progress. He set about trying to discover when the Dragonborn might be coming back, or failing that, where he'd gone.

After asking around town for a while, Quaranir wasn't sure how much of the information he'd been given was worthy of paying attention to. Nothing about the dragon-slaying, bandit-hunting, treasure-seeking Dragonborn of rumour seemed remotely like the scared young man Quaranir had seen through the manascope. Not doubt all stories became exaggerated by the telling, but by how much?

A very pretty young Nord told him the story of how the Dragonborn had acquired her a mammoth tusk, apparently for no reason other than the goodness of his heart. Quaranir privately wondered if her large grey eyes were the real reason, but still couldn't picture him slaying a mammoth. On the other hand, she didn't say he actually slew the mammoth, just that he acquired a tusk.

"But where is he now?" Quaranir asked, again and again, and mostly all he got were shrugs.

"Try asking the Companions?"

But they didn't know either, and they seemed rather suspicious of him for asking.

Quaranir spent his first night in Skyrim in the inn, trying to sleep while endless renditions of Ragnar the Red floated up from the bar below. He was irritated to have come so close purely by chance, and yet have made no progress. The trail was cooling even as he rested.

The next morning Quaranir left the inn bright and early and continued his enquiries. Finally, under the Gildergreen tree, he hit pay dirt. The priestess there was happy to tell him that the Dragonborn had offered to retrieve Nettlebane, a blade required to help restore the withered tree.

"And where," Quaranir asked, careful to keep his voice even, "is Nettlebane?"

He couldn't get to Orphan Rock fast enough. He was careful, however, to leave town on foot, and make sure he was alone before casting his magic once again. He had only his map to guide him, and he wasn't entirely sure where Orphan Rock was, but he thought he'd saved at least a day's travel.

When he reappeared his boots were crunching on snow, and the mountains rose grey and inscrutable around him. He had thought Whiterun was cold; he didn't know the half of it. Still uncertain as to where exactly he was, he set off hoping for a road, or at least some tracks in the snow. He didn't want the Dragonborn to see him, but he was still probably a day or two behind him anyway. Orphan Rock first, and then follow the trail.

And cross fingers it doesn't snow in the meantime.

Quaranir had no intention of interfering. The Psijic Order had a strong policy of staying out of the affairs of the wider world unless it was absolutely necessary. Thus, he tried to keep a low profile, and wished, once again, that he'd thought to wear something a little less conspicuous.

He found the road easily enough, and to his disappointment it was too clear of snow to hold any tracks. He guessed the towering spire of stone that rose before him was Orphan Rock; he'd have to be careful; the inhabitants might still be on edge after a visit from the Dragonborn.

Thus, he left the road and started circling around trying to get a better vantage point. It was hard going; he wasn't used to wading through snow, and he slipped a couple of times, and his clothes grew damp up to his knees. His breath steamed in front of his face, and he grew so cross with the terrain he gave up trying to appreciate the spectacular scenery.

He wasn't paying all that much attention to what was higher up the slope, either.

He paused stare at Orphan Rock, and he heard the unmistakable creak of a bow being drawn.

"Put your hands where I can see them, please," said a voice with a clear Imperial accent.

Quaranir was hardly afraid of an arrow as he had any number of offensive and defensive magics at his disposal to neutralise the threat, but he'd rather not use them and draw attention; not until someone actually tried to rob him at least, and so he put his hands in the air obediently.

Silence fell. The voice had seemed so certain and sure, but for a couple of minutes nothing happened. Quaranir was sure the man was still there.

Eventually, "Uh, you can turn around, I suppose." His bandit, if indeed a bandit he was, was clearly new to the job.

Quaranir, by now rather curious, turned around, his hands still in the air and starting to get tired. His jaw dropped.

The man who stood before him was not the giant warrior who strode through the stories of the people of Whiterun, but no longer was he the shivering whelp Quaranir had seen through the manascope either.

He'd filled out a bit, dark hair now ragged to his jawline and a braid tucked behind his ear. He hadn't quite managed to turn his stubble into a beard. He'd left behind his ragged Imperial finery and was dressed in thick furs and studded leather. Despite the length of time he'd been holding the bow drawn, the tip of the arrow, still pointed at Quaranir's chest, didn't waver. He had a pack on his back, from which dangled a lantern and a pick, and a steel-braced shield on top. A war axe hung from his belt, and a dagger was strapped to the opposite thigh.

But those eyes hadn't changed. Still dark and intense, the effect was magnified when looking into them without the aid of the manascope. Quaranir stared.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm, well, I'm lost," Quaranir said, trying to come up with something plausible. "I was trying to find a vantage point. According to my map the next town should be Helgen."

The Dragonborn lowered his bow and relaxed the string. He couldn't manage to hide the look of relief that he wouldn't have to try and kill him; not yet a hardened warrior.

"You're not lost." He slung the bow over his back, "But you're a bit misinformed. There isn't much left of Helgen. Let me guess, you're new to Skyrim?"

"Just arrived," Quaranir said truthfully.

"I know that feeling," the Dragonborn said with a shy, slightly rueful half-smile, that made Quaranir want to smile too, for no real reason.

"Give me a look at your map," he said. "You don't want to go to Helgen, but I should be able to direct you to Riverwood. It's much nicer anyway." He stepped closer, apparently satisfied with Quaranir's explanation.

Quaranir sensed rather than saw the crackle of magic, and he didn't think; he acted. He grabbed the Dragonborn with his right hand and yanked him forward, flinging up a ward with his left. The Dragonborn stumbled against Quaranir with an exclamation of surprise, but the monk was focusing on the witch who had crested the rise and the lightning that was arcing from her fingertips.

"You're a mage?" the Dragonborn asked, and Quaranir resisted the urge to fire back, 'aren't you?' The Dragonborn had to be a mage; how else was he going to enter the college and uncover the object? But Quaranir would save these questions for later and merely nodded. The witch was not a skilled mage, and his ward was holding easily enough.

"They heard us," the Dragonborn said, reaching for his bow. "I was hoping to do this the easy way." He dropped to one knee behind Quaranir's ward, and nocked an arrow. At that range he couldn't miss; the arrow hit her directly in the chest and she tumbled backwards off the rock.

The Dragonborn bowed his head. "Right," he said. "It's too late now; I have to fight them." He looked up at Quaranir, "Thank you for your timely ward." He explained quickly and concisely about the Gildergreen and Nettlebane and Quaranir found himself wishing he didn't have to pretend ignorance all the time; it wasn't something he was used to.

Orphan Rock was alive with angry shouting and the flicker of magic.

"Are you sure about this?" Quaranir asked.

The Dragonborn looked over his shoulder at him, "Well, I suppose I should get you somewhere safe first. Come on, back this way." The Dragonborn led him quietly back to the road, and they put some distance between them and Orphan Rock before his brisk pace slowed. They halted in yet another stretch of pine forest and Quaranir realised at this point he actually _was_ lost.

The Dragonborn paused, turned and walked right up to him, close enough that Quaranir could see an all-but-healed scar under his right eye, and smell the leather he wore. He raised his eyebrows as the Imperial lifted a hand to his hood and flick! Knocked it off his head. The cold immediately pinched Quaranir's ears.

"You're not with the Thalmor, I hope."

"Hardly," Quaranir said.

The Dragonborn smiled, "You don't really strike me as the type. What are you doing here?"

"I'm...I'm on my way to the College of Winterhold. I'm Quaranir." So much for non-interference and just observing. He'd just have to go with it for now.

"Markus Sullius," was the reply, and the Dragonborn held out his hand. "I'm here to source mammoth fur."

"_What_?" Whatever Quaranir was expecting, that hadn't been it.

"Are you familiar with the Imperial city? Sullius' Fine Rugs, near the markets next to the- well, never mind. That's why I'm in Skyrim, although," he paused, "things haven't been going quite to plan."

Quaranir was lost for words. Luckily, Markus wasn't.

"It seems like the giants have a monopoly on the mammoths, but communicating with them is almost impossible. I'll keep at it for a bit longer, but I might have return home empty-handed."

"You're going home? Back to Cyrodil?"

"Well, yeah. My father can't run the shop by himself indefinitely. Anyway, let's get you to a town. You'll be able to take a cart to Winterhold."

It was a sensible plan and Quaranir couldn't come up with any objections to it. He wanted to ask Markus about the dragons, but he was now stuck in the role of innocent tourist and couldn't say anything. Surely the Dragonborn of legend wasn't just going to look for rugs and then go home. That was definitely not factored into the Order's predictions.

"What about Nettlebane?" Quaranir asked.

"Well, that. Maybe it requires a greater adventurer than I to obtain it." He shrugged self-deprecatingly and Quaranir didn't know if he was charmed by the man's self-effacement or irritated by his lack of self-knowledge. Still, hadn't he underestimated him as well at first? Markus may well be taking the long route to greatness.

In the meantime, he'd just have to play along.


	3. Chapter 3

Markus didn't quite know what to make of his Altmer companion. He was a bit reserved, but didn't come across a quite as snobby as the Thalmor Markus had had the misfortune to meet so far. He wasn't prejudiced, he'd met some friendly Altmer too.

But there was something a bit odd about him, and Markus studied him covertly as they walked along the road. His clothes were strange for a start; Markus had never seen any quite like them, even in the Imperial City – they were clearly very expensive, and he wondered if they were tailor made. He didn't get the impression Quaranir was concerned with money. He was lucky he hadn't been robbed already, he thought.

It was impossible to tell how old he was; Mer always seemed ageless to Markus, and Quaranir himself acted neither old nor young. He had long blonde hair tied back out of the way, and now hidden again under his hood, and lean but not weathered face. His eyes were unusually green, like emeralds. His smile was rare and always slightly startled, as if he'd forgotten he'd been capable of it and had to remind himself every time.

He seemed somewhat otherworldly, almost gentle; he'd cast a ward rather than fireball, after all. Markus couldn't help but feel a little protective; Quaranir was an innocent abroad, and Markus himself had been in that position only a few months prior. Skyrim was not kind to the ignorant.

There was no cart service from Falkreath and Quaranir had agreed when Markus had suggested going east instead, towards Riften. Markus himself had business there; Nettlebane could wait. It would mean a longer journey, but Quaranir seemed in no hurry, and Markus was secretly relieved not to have to drastically change his plans for a complete stranger.

The sun was beginning to set and Markus was keeping an eye out for somewhere safe to sleep for the night when he heard the familiar roar of a bear. He held up his hand, and Quaranir stopped.

Markus drew his weapons and kept his head low, rounding an outcrop of rock to locate the bear. It didn't look like they would be able to go around; they were in a narrow pass, still some distance from Ivarstead.

He took a deep breath, and darted in. The bear heard him coming, but Markus was moving fast, charging over the rock, his axe flashing. The bear turned, and as it did so he brought his axe into its meaty shoulder, his dagger slashing for its eyes. It reared up on its hind legs and he heard Quaranir shout his name in alarm as Markus rolled under the beast's paws.

It was like chopping at a tree. His lungs were filled with the hot, old-meat smell of the creature, and it's blood was warm on his wrists and knuckles, even through the gloves he wore. The bear roared, and slashed again, and Markus staggered back; he didn't try to match its strength against his own, he avoided, darted around, waited until it was on its back legs again and charged in, his dagger seeking its heart.

The bulk of it knocked him on his back as it staggered. He rolled away and scrambled to his feet. He didn't like to see suffering. Adrenaline pumping in his veins, he had the energy to attack again, bringing his axe down with all his strength on the beast's skull. Its legs buckled and it came to rest.

He jumped in surprise when Quaranir scrambled up to join him and grabbed his arm, half patting him down in a manner that was slightly disconcerting, "Are you alright?" He looked quite concerned. Markus looked down and realised why.

"Oh, haha. No this, most of this blood isn't mine. Might have scraped myself but I'm fine, really." He tucked his braid behind his ear. "I wouldn't get far in Skyrim if I couldn't handle a bear."

"Good." Quaranir dropped his hands, and shivered. Markus watched a few flakes of snow drift down.

"Well that's not an encouraging change in the weather. Let me skin this thing and we'll find somewhere to shelter. We don't want to be caught in a storm."

Markus didn't take long to skin the bear and retrieve its claws – mindful of the fact that even if he didn't return with mammoth furs, he needed money and he wasn't too proud to trade in alchemical ingredients. But even so, by the time he was finished, snow was coming down steadily, settling on Quaranir's hood and shoulders, and making the mage's take on a distinctly bluish tint.

"I don't think we'll make it to Ivarstead tonight," he said. "We'll have to camp out."

"Must we?" Quaranir looked so put out Markus had to stifle a laugh; he clearly had no idea what he was letting himself in for, coming to Skyrim so unprepared.

"Unless you'd rather wade through snow all night. I don't mean out in the open, don't worry."

"All right all right, let's find somewhere quickly then. I can't feel my nose." He put his gloved hands up to his face and blew on them.

"It would be a shame to lose such a fine nose," Markus said, adding the bear pelt to the collection in his pack and slithering down the rock back to the road. He must really want to get to that college, Markus thought, but if he does he'd better get used to the cold quick.

They trudged on, blinking snowflakes off their eyelashes.

Eventually, and much to his relief, Markus spotted a lonely cabin a little distance off the road, and the travellers gratefully hurried towards it. Markus knocked politely on the door, but it fell open at his touch, and the single room inside was clearly uninhabited and had been for some time.

They bundled themselves inside and Markus braced the door shut simply by putting his pack against it. He stretched and rolled his shoulders, glad to be relieved of the weight. There wasn't much in the room. A single bed with a mouldy straw-filled mattress, a few barrels and crates and a table and chair.

There was, at least, a fireplace and Markus set about demolishing one of the barrels for firewood. Quaranir sat on the bed with some relief.

"I'm not really used to this much walking," the elf admitted, as Markus tossed the wood into the fireplace.

"What do you normally do?" he asked.

"I study. Conduct experiments, read books, practice spells."

"Rather you than me," he said with a grin. Markus snapped his fingers and a small flame danced over his hand, long enough to ignite the tinder.

"You're a mage!" Quaranir said, suddenly paying attention.

"Hardly," Markus said, still watching the fire, and prodding it into life. "I just have a bit of a knack, that's all."

"You should go to the College of Winterhold."

"Why? I know _one_ spell and I can light a campfire with it, that's all. They wouldn't let me in."

"Yes they would," Quaranir said confidently. "And you go to the College to learn more, that's the point."

Markus sighed, "I really don't have any interest. I'm a rug merchant, not a mage. I don't think my family would be very happy if I donned a robe and waved my hands all day. Are you hungry?" he wanted to change the subject.

"Very much so." Quaranir got up and moved closer to the fire.

Markus ransacked his backpack and produced half a horker loaf, some bread and a couple of apples. Quaranir did not look very enthusiastic about the loaf, but he ate it with a dutiful look, and Markus eventually got him to admit it was filling.

They sat in companionable silence, just enjoying the fire. Markus had opened one of the windows a crack to check that it was still snowing. With no wind, there was a strange hush beyond the crackle and snap of burning wood.

Quaranir opened his pack and produced a fine leather-bound notebook and a pencil. Markus ran a stone over his weapons while he watched the Altmer frown over his book.

"What are you writing?" he asked eventually.

"A journal."

"Ah, of your adventures in Skyrim."

"Something like that." He sighed. He caught Markus's sympathetic look and elaborated, "This journey isn't quite turning out like I'd planned. I'm starting to wonder if I've irrevocably messed it up."

"You're just tired and cold," Markus said. "It's easy to get disheartened, but I'm sure things will look better in the morning. We should sleep anyway, it has to be pretty late. Don't worry about the bed, I'll just throw some furs on top." He knelt to unpack his furs from his pack, while Quanir got to his feet.

"Both of us together?" Quaranir asked.

"Well I don't have enough furs for two," Markus said. "And you don't have any either. Is there a problem?"

"Well, er, I, ah," Quaranir stammered and didn't seem to know what to do with his hands. Markus thought was sort of cute, which wasn't the kind of thought he'd probably find reassuring.

Markus grinned, "Relax, I'll keep my hands to myself. You can't stand on ceremony in Skyrim."

Quaranir flushed, "I never said you wouldn't," he muttered. He looked like he was going to object for a moment, and then he bent to take off his boots.

Markus often slept in his armour, but since it was both fairly pungent after a few days on the road, and somewhat bloodstained he shucked it as fast as he could and dived into the furs wearing his undershirt and pants.

"One thing to look forward to," he said, "At least tonight we'll be warm."

The fire was dying; the small amount of wood he'd cut for it was mostly ash, and Quaranir looked at the coals for a few moments before tugging off his boots and crawling onto the bed mostly-clothed.

The elf promptly hit his head on the headboard, and Markus heard him mutter unhappily in Altmeri as he instinctively moved down and cracked his toes on the wall at the foot of the bed. Markus tried not to laugh; he didn't want to make his mood worse.

There was barely room for them both and all the furs. Eventually Quaranir climbed over the top of him to lie with his back against the wall of the shack. Markus ended up with his head wedged under Quaranir's arm. It was awkward, and made even more awkward by the fact that Quaranir seemed incredibly tense about the whole thing. But he was warm. His breath tickled Markus's ear.

"Comfortable?" Markus asked sleepily.

"I suppose." Quaranir still sounded grumpy, although Markus didn't think it was directed at him.

"Good night, my friend." Markus pulled the fur up over his ears and slept.


	4. Chapter 4

Quaranir awoke with a start, quite warm but deeply uncomfortable. Markus's tounseled head was on his arm, not quite heavy enough to be painful but not comfortable either, his neck was sore from being at an odd angle, and he had an erection that could split granite.

Markus, thankfully, was still asleep and hadn't noticed, and Quaranir tried to concentrate on willing it away; some errant dream he couldn't remember was probably responsible. He closed his eyes and starting from basic principles, derived the fundamental nature of the various kinds of magic.

Well, he tried.

Markus wasn't doing anything. He was just sleeping. He'd rolled over and pressed his face into Quaranir's chest, and the elf could feel every breath he took. He could only vaguely feel the shape of his body through his robes, shorter but strong, relaxed and heavy, basking in their shared warmth.

And the principles of mysticism just weren't working. Time to think of something depressing rather than merely distracting. Like the fact that his mission was a complete shambles. He'd located the Dragonborn fine, but somehow he'd managed to get himself tangled up in a way no impartial observer ever should. The Psijic Order had clear guidelines when interacting with the outside world.

He could just imagine what his superiors would think if they caught him now, actually in _bed_ with his subject-

His thoughts had neatly circled right around to what he was trying to avoid thinking about, and now he was depressed as well as aroused. Markus was going to wake up eventually. He was already starting to stir. He pressed closer in his sleep and Quaranir realised with a pleasantly electric jolt he had a similar problem. He had to get out, now.

He struggled free of Markus's head, and wriggled out from between him and the wall, practically falling over him and crawling out onto the floor.

Instantly he regretted it. It was cold out here. But he pressed on, scrambling to his feet and making a grab for his boots before staggering outside.

The cold air stung his face and hands, and burned down into his chest as he breathed deeply, trying to calm himself down. He was a Psijic monk, think calm, think magic, do not be distracted by the frailties of the flesh.

It worked, this time. Either that or the biting cold did. The snow had stopped but it lay a few inches deep all around.

When Quaranir returned to the shack Markus was awake and half dressed, putting the furs away in his pack. "Morning," he said, cheerfully enough. "Sleep okay?"

"Not really," Quaranir confessed. He didn't want to encourage this sort of thing.

"Well, the good news is we can be at Ivarstead today, and we can pick up a second bedroll for you. I need more supplies as it is and I don't really want to divert from the road and go hunting. We can spend the night there and push on to Riften tomorrow."

Quaranir nodded, and Markus handed him some strips of dried venison for breakfast that they chewed as they set off again.

"Do you think you'll get those mammoth furs?" Quaranir asked eventually, after racking his brains for some topic to converse on. He needed to get some idea of when Markus would find the object and how.

"To be honest, no. If you visit a Nord's house, you'll see they have furs of all kinds- except mammoth. Just the tusks are worth a small fortune; the giants don't like to share."

"But you're not going home?"

Markus sighed, "Well, there's my problem. I came to Skyrim with two thousand septims, which I no longer have."

"You were robbed?"

"Worse; I was taxed. Even if I don't make a profit, I have to earn the money back before I can face going home. I think I can do it though."

"And then you're just going to sell rugs for the rest of your life?"

"Of course! It's an honest profession. We make good money too; we're not wealthy but we're comfortable. It's what I was born to do." He smiled, "From when I was very small I used to help out in the shop whenever I wasn't being tutored. My favourite part was when the Khajiit caravans arrived. I used to climb over their wares and imagine I could smell and feel where they'd come from; skins from Vvalenwood, pottery from Elsweyr. The merchants used to tell me stories of far-off lands, some of which might even been true."

He smiled almost dreamily and Quaranir smiled too; he just looked quietly happy as he remembered. It made Quaranir feel warm, somewhere in his chest, but it was oddly painful too.

"It's what I like best about the business," he continued. "It's why I jumped at the chance to come to Skyrim. How about you?"

The question startled Quaranir, and he quickly recalled the lies he'd told earlier. "Well, I didn't come here for the weather." Markus was still listening and Quaranir continued, "I just wanted to get away from the Thalmor; the College of Winterhold seemed like the logical place to go. I hear it's very good, very high standard of scholarship and good facilities."

"Maybe, but the locals don't really like mages. When I went to Winterhold everyone seemed kind of annoyed that the college was even there."

"Well," Quaranir smiled weakly, "I'll just have to change their minds. People just need to embrace their abilities; look at you, you're a mage with potential."

"I am not."

"You _are_, trust me. They'll see it too, the moment you arrive."

"I'm not going to Winterhold!" Markus snapped, and Quaranir immediately pulled back. It seemed that line of attack wasn't working very well. He honestly wasn't sure what to do now; he had a couple of days before they'd part, and he couldn't think of any excuse to stay with him for any longer.

Still, Quaranir did not get his position by being inflexible in this thinking. If Markus was taking his time going to Winterhold, perhaps it would be more useful to observe Winterhold and wait for Markus. At the very least, he'd gather some information about the college, and see if he could set up some inconspicuous methods of observation.

All of which was fine, but what if Markus never showed up? Something to worry about another day, for he could see smoke rising ahead of them, and hear the low grumble of a sawmill wheel turning.

Ivarstead.

A small village built around the mill, the Throat of the World dominating the sky to the west. Markus had obviously been here before, as he was greeted by name by some of the inhabitants as they made their way to the inn.

"I get good prices for bear skins here," he explained. "So I'll sell them here, and take the rest to Riften. We'll get some rooms and you can get some proper sleep if you like."

Quaranir didn't really feel like sleeping, and so he left his pack on the bed and followed Markus back outside again. Quaranir had to admit, Markus was pretty good at haggling; he seemed endlessly knowledgeable about the furs he was selling and Quaranir was sure his good looks didn't hurt his prices either.

Good looks? Quaranir frowned and went to try and acquire some supplies of his own. He didn't really need them; he could travel across Skyrim in an instant, after all, but it was a good distraction.

Markus went down to the swift flowing mountain stream that powered the mill and scrubbed the dried blood and mud off his armour before returning to the warmth of the inn to oil it. Quaranir offered to buy him a drink and Markus asked for mead.

"I thought you'd prefer the wine," Quaranir said.

"I thought the mead was too sweet at first," Markus said, attacking his gloves with a stiff brush, "but in this weather you need all the energy you can eat and drink to keep warm."

The bard came around and Markus asked him to play The Age of Oppression. The Imperial seemed to know the words quite well, singing along under his breath.

"You like that song?" Quaranir asked. It struck him as very...Nordic.

"Well, the tune really, rather than the words. I try and stay out of the war; no one likes an opinionated Imperial these days anyway. I hope to be gone before the war really gets going; it might be good news for blacksmiths and armourers, but it's bad for traders who rely on safe and open roads." He shook his head, not looking up from his work, "I was so naive when I came to Skyrim. Sometimes I wonder what my father was thinking, sending me away so green. Maybe he was naive too; it's easy to feel safe in the Imperial city.

"You're just young," Quaranir said. "You seem to be doing fine to me."

Markus flashed him a brief smile, "Well, I am now I suppose."

Markus eventually finished cleaning his armour, and he told Quaranir about his family's shop in the Imperial city. Quaranir felt obliged to tell him a bit about his studies, and although Markus listened attentively, he could see most of it went right over his head.

They had some kind of stew for dinner, and while it was an improvement on the rations they'd eaten the day before, Quaranir found it a little depressing. Markus must have read his expression, because when he got up to order more drinks, he returned with some baked things with cream on top.

"I know how you feel," he said. "And then I discovered these – sweetrolls, give 'em a try. Dunno why they call them rolls; they look more like cakes to me."

Humouring him, as Quaranir had a hard time believing the Nords could cook anything better than the Altmer, he tore a piece off and ate it. Huh.

"This isn't bad."

Markus just laughed at him as he watched him eat the whole thing. "They know how to bake up here," he explained. "Sweetrolls, boiled creme treats, honey nut treats, taffy – this province is giving me a sweet tooth." He pushed across a bottle of mead. "Go on, this isn't as bad as you think it is either."

Quaranir smiled and shrugged, "Only if you get me another one of those sweetrolls."

The rest of the evening passed in a pleasantly warm haze. Quaranir managed to tell a couple of jokes; something he was all but incapable of when entirely sober, and Markus plied him with sweetrolls and mead, and they talked like old friends about nothing much in particular.

The fires flickered low, and the other patrons started leaving, and Markus eventually suggested that they turn in. Quaranir got to his feet and promptly swayed off them again; he hadn't moved from his seat in hours, and had been lulled by the sweetness of the mead.

Markus was at his side in moments, and the Imperial wrapped an arm around his waist and dragged him off to his room.

"I've never had a friend like you," Quaranir heard himself saying. "Never." Markus brought them to a halt at Quaranir's bed, and he held his gaze for a few moments. "Never," Quaranir repeated, and reached up to tuck the braid back behind Markus's ear. He looked so, so something. Something good.

Markus gave him a strange, knowing smile and disentangled himself. "Good night, Quaranir. Sleep better this time, won't you?"

And then he was gone, and Quaranir tumbled onto the bed. It felt cold. He'd have to warm it up by himself. He heaved a sigh, and was asleep before he remembered to take his boots off.


	5. Chapter 5

Markus knew what Quaranir's trouble was. He was clearly a mage who'd never thought to do anything else with his time, and Skyrim was overwhelming him. Markus didn't really mind showing him the world, but he'd caught that lost, yearning look in his eyes the night before and wasn't sure where exactly that was going.

Nowhere, probably. He was going to the College of Winterhold, and no matter how many hints he dropped about it, Markus wasn't going with him. He had to make his money and then go home and all this...dragon stuff – he didn't like to think about it, and he liked to talk about it even less; part of him wondered what the mage would make of it, but it was better he didn't know.

It was better nobody knew, so he could just leave. It made him feel a bit guilty, if he was honest as something was clearly expected of him.

The next morning saw more clear skies, and Markus was up early; he wanted to get to Riften by dark, and it was doable if they didn't tarry. Getting Quaranir out of bed turned out to be somewhat more of a challenge, the mage muttering something about how it wasn't supposed to be a holiday while he unenthusiastically stirred his porridge.

"I really should thank you," Quaranir said when they were on the road again. "It's very generous of you to bring me along."

"Well, the miles go faster when there's someone to share them with," Markus said. "Not to mention, I'd feel bad if I just left you in the middle of nowhere to be eaten by bears." He smiled, "Your company is not a burden, Quaranir."

Their conversation was interrupted by some large spiders. Quaranir looked more revolted than scared, and Markus had no trouble killing them from a distance with his bow.

"They really are ugly," Quaranir said.

"And useless," Markus added. "No meat, no hide, but still dangerous." He yanked his arrows free of their hairy bodies.

Quaranir started talking about the College of Winterhold. Markus knew he was excited about it, but there were limits, and somehow he kept coming around to the fact that Markus himself had a bit of magical talent.

Markus gave up nodding and going 'how interesting' and plodded on in silence, but that didn't seem to deter the mage. Riften was in view across the lake when Markus finally lost his temper.

"For fuck's sake!" he turned on Quaranir and snarled. The mage was startled into silence. "I don't care how badly you think you need a friend, I am not going to the College! I don't care if you're going to be lonely. If for some reason I visit Winterhold I'll drop by and say hello."

Point made, he huffed and stomped onwards. Quaranir followed meekly, and in silence, until they got to Riften. Markus felt a bit bad about yelling at him, but he had to admit it was a relief to have him finally shut up.

"Riften," Markus said. "The cart leaves from here; you'll be able to go directly to Winterhold. Winterhold's not on one of the trade routes, however, so if you think you'll need anything, I'd advise getting it here. The Riften markets are some of the best in Skyrim; just watch your coin purse. There are thieves about."

Riften was close to Cyrodil, and Markus got some of the better prices for his wares here; he was also working on building up a list of business contacts. His father had taught him the importance of knowing people and being trusted in business. He half-expected Quaranir to leave immediately, but he followed him into Riften instead.

Markus cast a professional eye over all the wares on sale; jewellery, furs, weapons, armour, books, gems, fresh food and even ore from the nearby mines. His steel-banded shield was getting decidedly battered and he picked up a picked up a steel shield, and turned it over to examine the bracing on the back.

And stopped.

Hell.

Was that _him_?

Markus ran his hand over his chin, fingering the long bristles, touched the scar below his eye. The world seemed to recede, and he put the shield back without a word. He'd forgotten Quaranir, and he let his feet take him where they would. He wandered aimlessly, and eventually found himself standing on the docks staring out over the lake.

It was late evening, and the lights of nearby farms reflected in the water. It was quieter out here, less crowded, and Markus sat on the edge of the dock, his feet hanging over the water. His reflection was only a dark silhouette against the stars, but he stared at it anyway.

"Um."

Markus looked up and wondered how long Quaranir had been standing there.

"I uh, sorry. Didn't mean to abandon you."

Quaranir shrugged. "Are you alright? You just disappeared without a word."

"It's nothing to do with you, don't worry." Markus looked out across the lake. He heard Quaranir walk across the weathered dock and sit down next to him. He didn't make any demands, but eventually Markus felt he had to say something.

"It's ridiculous really," he said. "Laughable."

"I won't laugh," Quaranir said.

"I saw my reflection," Markus said. He tried to laugh anyway, but Quaranir just listened. "I barely recognised- how can I go back like this?"

"Well, a shave and a haircut-"

"It was like looking into a stranger's eyes. I'm someone else. I'm not- I've killed people. What would my family think about that? My cousins are going to be terrified of me. And what will the customers think? I look like a smuggler."

Quaranir was silent for a little while. "You know that doesn't seem insurmountable."

Markus rested his elbows on his knees. "It won't be going back. I just realised that I can't go back to how it used to be. I told myself, I'd sort the money and go home, and it would be as if it never happened. But it's not going back, it's not undoing what's been done; it's moving forward again. I won't just be a merchant, I'll be an adventurer who became a merchant."

"And that's not what you want to do?" Quaranir asked.

"I don't know. I didn't even give it any thought, I was just doing what seemed obvious. And now it's not. Who am I?" he turned to Quaranir and asked.

Quaranir shrugged. "I'm not very good at this sort of thing. I think you'll be fine whatever you do."

"Easy for you to say. You're a mage, you've always been a mage, you do mage things all the time. No question."

"Sometimes I question," Quaranir admitted. "Well, just recently. Not question, really, just, think about other things."

Markus was surprised; Quaranir hadn't gone more than two minutes all day without talking about Winterhold. He looked at him, and realised that the Altmer was looking back, his green eyes wide and uncertain.

"What kind of things?" Markus prompted quietly.

Quaranir opened his mouth and shut it again, and Markus leaned forward encouragingly. He could feel his heart beating.

"Not," Quaranir said in a strangled tone. "Not really helpful things since I'm going to Winterhold."

Markus nodded and tried not to be disappointed, "Right, of course. Sensible."

"I'm going to miss you," Quaranir added. The mage awkwardly held out an arm in invitation, and Markus wondered how much courage that had taken.

"Yeah," he said, and smiled, and leaned in to hug him. He smelled like summer, and his hair was ridiculously soft. Markus resisted the urge to rub his cheek in it. When they separated, he felt a bit better. Maybe he'd stay in Skyrim a bit longer; work things out before going home.

"Take care of yourself," he told Quaranir. "And safe travels."


	6. Chapter 6

Quaranir was obliged to take the cart to Winterhold. Markus came with him to see him off, and so rather than the instantaneous magic he was capable of, he had to spend a long, cold night huddling in the back of a rickety cart while the driver steered, apparently in his sleep. Maybe it was the horse that knew the way.

He felt muddled and unsettled and he could still feel the press of Markus's arms around him – it made his heart skip. Unfortunate. Ill-advised. But he told himself it wasn't just his malfunctioning anatomy that had opened his arms, for when he had released him, he had a strand of Markus's thick, dark hair wrapped around his fingers. It would be enough to recalibrate the manascope.

As much as part of him wanted to watch the Dragonborn, just to make sure he was alright, of course, he'd set it on the College instead, and the Order would know if the Imperial crossed the threshold for any reason. It was neat, it was efficient, and he hope it was good enough that the other monks would buy it as an excuse for talking to the Dragonborn directly.

And then, finally, he could go home. Get out of the cold, out of these muddy boots, and back to his beloved books and enchantments. Markus had been so certain about his lack of interest in the College, Quaranir half-expected that this would be the end of it. Their predictions had been a glitch, nothing more, the forces of fate thrown off by an especially stubborn rug-merchant. The idea made him smile, and stranger things had happened.

As for Markus, Quaranir wished him the best, whatever he decided to do with his life. Humans had so little time to waste in contemplating their options in comparison to Mer; just a few short decades to make their mark on the world.

Make their mark on the people they met. Despite the discomfort, Quaranir knew he'd treasure this time he'd spent in Skyrim, and mostly thanks to Markus.

"You look terrible."

Quaranir could only laugh as he was welcomed back. He hadn't slept since Ivarstead, instead setting up his wards and investigating the College as best he could while avoiding their wards - he didn't want to make his presence known if he could help it. But now he was exhausted; the spell that returned him to Artaeum had drained the last of his reserves.

He blinked in the warm afternoon sun while his colleagues slapped him on the back. He gave them a garbled account of what he'd achieved, and then steered himself off to have a bath and then an early dinner.

The early reactions were favourable; everyone seemed to think he'd handled the mission in good time and with decent results. He did his best to give the impression he'd just sort of casually brushed past the Dragonborn to acquire his hair, and everyone seemed to buy it. Warm, relieved and relaxed, Quaranir drank wine and ate seafood and fruit salad and headed back to his room for a well-deserved rest.

He closed the door behind him and leant against it with a sigh. Everything was just as he'd left it; the piles of books, the alchemical laboratory simmering in the corner, the telescope and hanging plants on the balcony, the soul gem paperweights. His whole life was here, all his achievements and all he'd yet to achieve.

It was his space, like an extension of his mind.

It just seemed a bit smaller than he remembered. Which was ridiculous; he was just tired. He gave it no more thought and tumbled into bed.

Only, it _was_ a bit smaller. Somehow.

He got back into his usual routine after a day off to recuperate. He worked hard on making a report, and then catching up with what had happened (admittedly not a lot) in his absence. He debated the usual debates, and continued his other projects.

And every time he wasn't paying attention, his mind would wander to snowier places. He'd try and guess what Markus was doing – slaying another bear perhaps? Drinking in an inn? Sometimes he pictured less innocent things, no matter how much he tried to tell himself not to. His mind, it seemed, had a mind of its own. It showed him images Markus shedding his clothes for a swim in the lake, or getting ready to sleep. And then there were the dreams, dreams Quaranir woke from gasping.

He tried to avoid reliving the memories of Skyrim; they were precious and part of him worried that he'd wear them out by revisiting them too much. The creak of Markus's bow, the taste of mead, the warmth of his arms.

Quaranir reminded himself that in a comparatively few years Markus would be old and grey anyway, but those months lasted longer than some decades to Quaranir's mind, and he wondered if he'd ever be cured, if there even was a cure.

And thus, time passed. The news from Skyrim was that the civil war appeared to be in a sapping, deadly stalemate, and that dragons were seen more and more often in the frozen skies.

And then, one morning, Quaranir found himself standing once again before the manascope, his heart racing unaccountably. The wards had been triggered; Markus had entered the College of Winterhold. It wasn't the thought that the object might be uncovered that had Quaranir so eager; he'd almost forgotten about it. Winterhold was in the grip of what appeared to be a blizzard, and there wasn't much to see in the manascope but swirling snow. Focusing on the interior of the College would likely give away their presence.

"I have to go back," he said.

"Why, Quaranir? We haven't noticed any fluctuations in the power levels yet. He's only just arrived. We can monitor the situation from here."

"Yes, but." What _was_ he doing in Winterhold? He'd been so determined not to go. Quaranir couldn't help but feel a bit hopeful; maybe he was looking for him. "Well, you see, I was obliged to introduce myself as a college mage. He might wonder where I am, or worse, ask after me."

"Didn't you just meet casually on the road? Why would he look for you?"

Quaranir felt his web of lies constrict around him. "I just think it would be best – just look, we can't see a damn thing." He waved a hand at the manascope.

Some discussion followed, but Quaranir remained adamant and no one felt like wasting energy arguing against him too hard.

Quaranir had no time to pack. He threw on his boots and gloves and a cloak, and sent himself northward, once again on the arcane currents of magic.

He was not prepared for what awaited him. He'd aimed for an inconspicuous spot somewhere in the township, but hadn't thought to aim for a sheltered one. Instantly his hood was ripped back off his head by the biting wind, and his long hair whipped into his eyes and mouth. Flakes of swirling snow battered him, reducing visibility to only a few feet, and he staggered in the knee-deep drifts, trying to find his feet.

He tried to swear but the words were lost in the howling gale.

And then he heard a roaring sound, and a great gout of fire arced through the snow, almost instantly obscured by steam. Quaranir ducked instinctively as he heard the beating of great wings. He didn't hesitate to cast shielding spells on himself as he stumbled forward into the murk. He tried to track the dragon by sound; only occasionally did he catch a glimpse of a dark shape hovering above. He thought he heard the sounds of spellfire, but he wasn't sure.

Despite the weather, at one point he felt a rush of heat wash over him and he dived forward into the snow as the dragon made a pass. Sliding in the meltwater and mud he came across an injured guard, and applied a hasty healing spell before dragging the woman to her feet. He helped her hobble to the nearest house, and she leant against the wall, slugged back a health potion, and charged off to rejoin the fray.

Nords were entirely mad, Quaranir thought, and he wasn't much better. Arriving in a blizzard was a terrible idea.

He formed a ball of fire between his hands, and lobbed it in the direction he thought the dragon was. He didn't think it would do much good; as long as the dragon stayed in the air, no one could accurately attack it. Winterhold would be ash.

_Lok! Vah! Koor!_

Quaranir felt the power wash over him, and for a moment he thought it was the dragon who had Shouted. And then the clouds were swept away, and only remnant flakes of snow glittered in the sudden sunshine. The dragon was perfectly visible in all its malevolent glory, perched on the inn with its head thrown back to give answering voice. And standing in the main street was a man.

A man in gleaming elven armour, carrying a sword that glowed like a star and a shield made of gold and ivory. He had long dark hair tied back from his face; a braid swung free to his collarbone. He glared at the dragon and roared a challenge in its own tongue.

And Quaranir recognised him. Markus.

Those dark eyes turned from the dragon, and an arresting gaze met his own. Markus started to smile even as the dragon whipped its head down and opened its jaws. Psijic Monks are not supposed to act, not supposed to interfere, but Quaranir didn't hesitate. He summoned his power, and brought time itself to a stop.

Markus looked a bit startled at the frozen bloom of fire hovering motionless from the dragon's jaws, but he didn't waste the opportunity staring; he sheathed his weapons and hurried out of the way, jogging over towards Quaranir, his eyes lightening and his smile broadening in a manner that made Quaranir feel quite warm, despite the snow.

Quaranir was going to say something, a greeting, an explanation, but Markus simply didn't stop. He swept up to Quaranir, wrapped his arms around his shoulders and pressed his lips, slightly chilled and wind chapped, against Quaranir's mouth.

Quaranir's mind went blank. He embraced Markus, armour and all, angling his head down and parting his lips, uncertain as to how it was done, certain this was how you did it. His heart was knocking in his ears, in his neck.

His stubble was cold. His breath was warm. Quaranir wasn't sure he remembered how to breathe. The world hung still and silent around them; Quaranir's reserves were ebbing, but he never wanted it to end, never wanted to restart the world and move them apart.

Markus's tongue was at his teeth. Quaranir gasped and then broke the kiss.

"I can't keep this-" he said hoarsely.

Markus nodded. "I missed you."

"Yes." He'd noticed.


	7. Chapter 7

The world crashed in on them again as the spell ended. Quaranir watched Markus draw his weapons and turn away. His lips were still tingling.

The guards of Winterhold scrambled to make the most of the change in the weather. Arrows were flying. The dragon landed again, this time on the ground, and Quaranir could feel the impact even from where he was standing. Mindful that the Order might be watching proceedings through the manascope, he was obliged to do nothing and he held his breath as Markus charged the creature.

This was no bear. Nevertheless, Markus didn't hesitate. With the guards close behind he attacked the creature, hacking at its neck and head, rolling out of the way as it spewed fire once again. The firelight reflected off his armour, making it gleam.

The dragon took to the sky again, blood falling from its jaws like rain. Again the arrows were flying, and again the great creature was forced to land. Stunned by a blow from a guard's warhammer, the dragon reeled, and Markus jammed his weapon up through its jaw to the hilt, and wrenched it free.

With a dying groan, the dragon collapsed, and Quaranir could see its soul seething under its flaking skin, and then it sought another's. Markus shuddered as he absorbed the soul. Quaranir's mouth was dry. He hadn't quite accepted the visceral truth of what it meant to be Dragonborn. Markus had. He opened his eyes and sagged slightly, as the guards cheered and clapped.

"I didn't see you earlier," Markus said, when he approached Quaranir again. Now that his heartbeat had returned mostly to normal, Quaranir was quietly worrying; he'd _kissed_ him. What happened next?

"I only just, well, we need to talk," Quaranir said.

Markus looked a bit sheepish as well, "I um, probably should have said something first, huh? Or do you mean the whole Dragonborn thing? I just didn't want to tell everyone. Although everyone knows now."

"I don't mind that. But did you really join the College?" Quaranir asked.

"Well, only sort of. I need to go the library, so we can talk there if you like."

"Err, no we can't," Quaranir said, putting a hand on his arm. Thank goodness the manascope didn't transmit sound. "I'm not actually a member, and I'd rather to have to explain myself to them."

Markus frowned, "Are you going to explain yourself to me?"

Quaranir took a deep breath. "Yes."

Which was how they ended up in the inn. Quaranir didn't want anyone overhearing them, and so Markus had good naturedly suggested they get a room. Quaranir had spluttered, but it was the best idea. They ordered mead and sweetrolls and Quaranir resisted the urge to try the boiled creme treats.

Markus sat on the bed and Quaranir had the only chair. Markus took his gloves off to eat.

"All right," he said. "You first. If you're not here to join the College, why are you here?"

"Have you heard of the Psijic Order?"

"Nope." Not only had Markus not heard of it, Quaranir had to work quite hard to convince him it wasn't some bizarre practical joke. The Order's secrets weren't supposed to be spilled so easily, but once he started talking about it, Quaranir found it hard to stop; it was such a relief not to have to tell lies any more.

Eventually he ran out of things to say. He fell silent, and waited for Markus to respond.

"So you did all of this because of a hunch?" he asked.

"It's not really a hunch. If you interact with the College, it will happen. You were so adamant about not joining, why are you here anyway?"

"Like I said, I'm not really joining. I need access to the library. I need to- well, I don't understand all of it, but you've seen that I'm the Dragonborn. I might have the best chance of anyone of getting rid of the dragons. Once I have what I came for, I don't intend to come back here. Especially since you aren't even a member."

Quaranir flushed, "I see. I should observe and make sure you visit has no other consequences then."

"Can you at least tell me what horrible thing might happen?"

"We're not entirely sure. It's not an exact science, and as you've demonstrated it might not happen at all now. You're not angry, are you?"

"Why should I be? You're just doing your job."

Quaranir sagged with relief. "Thank you."

"So you decided to stay in Skyrim?" Quaranir was relieved that, despite the armour and the weapons, the man inside seemed much the same as ever. Already he could feel himself falling into the rhythm of their friendship, as if they'd known each other for years rather than days.

"I kept finding words," Markus said. "And more dragons showed up. Leaving started to feel too much like running away. And I finally got a letter from my father; he said a man needs to wander before he settles, so he knows what settling means. He said he always thought I had a touch of wanderlust, and that as long as I write, he doesn't expect the money back. I sent him the money anyway, but it was a weight off my mind."

"If you do manage to defeat the dragons, you'll be a hero," Quaranir pointed out.

Markus chuckled and shook his head, "Ah, that's what they say anyhow. I'm just me. I apologise for kissing you like that, by the way. I should have asked first."

Quaranir toyed with the bottle of mead and then put it back on the table. That was the outstanding matter, wasn't it? He shouldn't have, but Quaranir couldn't bring himself to regret it.

"Why did you do it?" he asked.

"Why?" Markus sat up and looked at him incredulously. "Why do you think? Because I like you. Because I missed you. Because you looked so damn happy to see me I couldn't help myself. I don't care if you're psychic."

"Psijic-"

"Whatever." Quaranir raised his eyebrows as Markus stood up and walked over to kneel by his chair. "I regretted not seeing you off with something more. I think you like me too, don't you?"

"Well, yes, but Markus, I'm a member of the Psijic Order – we dedicate our lives to the study of magic, we're not supposed to be distracted like this. I just shouldn't. I'm very sorry."

Markus looked a bit nonplussed. "Is it really that distracting?"

"Yes! For the last six months you've been worming your way into every stray thought. I daydream when I should be brainstorming. And that's only when I'm awake."

Markus grinned, looking rather pleased with himself. "_Really_?" His smile faded, "Well, I'm not going to argue if you've made up your mind. I guess I'm sorry I distracted you. I'll go to the library now, and you can make your observations, alright?" He got to his feet and collected his gloves. Quaranir bowed his head and listened to his footsteps as he walked to the door.

"Stop! Wait." He was on his feet and out of his chair before he'd really registered what he was doing. Markus stopped, but he didn't turn around; Quaranir realised he'd said what he had to say, and it was up to him now what to do with it. Quaranir hovered there for a few moments, instincts that had always seemed so tame and subservient to the study of magic had suddenly grown powerful, almost overwhelming.

Let him go, one last rational thought pleaded. And regret it for the rest of your life, was the reply.

Quaranir placed his hands on Markus's armoured shoulders. "Don't go," he said quietly. He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around him. Sometimes he forgot how much shorter Markus was; he seemed larger than life sometimes, but Quaranir had to bend his head slightly to talk into his ear.

"What about distracting you?" Markus was still looking straight ahead at the door.

"I really don't think I can be any more distracted than I already am," Quaranir confessed. Markus smiled and turned his head to look at him, and Quaranir took the opportunity to kiss him again, hesitantly, his eyes squeezed shut.

It was almost like he'd stopped time again. He heard a metallic thud on the floor and when Markus reached back and tangled his fingers in Quaranir's hair he realised he'd dropped his gloves.

When they broke apart and Quaranir opened his eyes, the look Markus was giving him made him instantly tongue-tied and warm and his robes were constricting him. Markus turned around to face him, while Quaranir worked his jaw trying to form words.

"I've never done this sort of, you know," he said desperately.

"Yes, I get it, you're a psychic monk. It's okay, I'm not exactly an expert." He chuckled, "We'll figure it out."

Quaranir didn't correct him.


	8. Chapter 8

Nose to, well, forehead, they kind of stumbled around the room towards the bed. Markus tried very hard to undo a purely decorative strap on Quaranir's robes and Quaranir hadn't the faintest idea how one removed armour, and his fingers just slid uselessly over the golden plates.

"Okay stop," Markus said with a grin. "You take yours off and I'll take mine off?"

"All of it?" Quaranir asked.

"Well, not if you don't want to."

Quaranir wanted to, but at the same time he suddenly felt very self-conscious. Psijic monks were not in the habit of even bathing together. He'd never even thought about it before; he was just himself, neither attractive nor not, it just wasn't relevant. Until now.

And Markus was gorgeous. Quaranir caught himself several times forgetting what he was doing and just staring as another piece of armour came off, revealing more pale skin, a sprinkling of hair on his chest and a line of the same down from his navel that had Quaranir chewing on his own lip.

Out of politeness or perhaps to build anticipation, Markus carefully wasn't looking at Quaranir while he undressed, and Quaranir resisted the urge to hide under the blankets when he finally stepped out of his pants. He compromised and sat on the bed, his knees drawn up to his chest as Markus turned to face him.

"What are you doing?" he asked with a smile.

"It's cold in here," Quaranir muttered. He was staring at Markus's cock. He'd had dreams like this, but they were always vague and uncertain. The reality was slightly shorter and thicker and a slightly darker colour and Quaranir was sure he could smell the hormones and feel the heat, even from here.

"Can I?" he asked, stretching out a hand.

"Well, yes. I didn't take my gear off because I was too hot," Markus said. He stepped forward, deliberately aiming for Quaranir's hand, which slid over his hip and around his back as he crawled up onto the bed, over Quaranir, who was obliged to lie back and lower his knees and Markus stretched out on top of him, solid and warm and his cock brushed Quaranir's stomach and he shivered.

Markus's braid hung down and Quaranir felt it touch his cheek. "You are so beautiful," Markus murmured and then immediately looked slightly embarrassed by his own admission.

Quaranir was barely breathing. Cautiously, he spread his hands across Markus's skin, feeling the muscles move underneath as he braced himself up on his hands to let Quaranir explore. He marvelled at the contrast of pale skin against his own golden fingers. Markus had faded freckles on his collarbone and chest, a relic of times spent in sunnier climates, a few scars – not many and most of them recent.

Hands weren't enough, Quaranir lifted his head and pressed his lips to Markus's chest. He wrapped his arms around the Imperial and pulled him closer and he obliged, his arms folding and he fell onto Quaranir and kissed him.

He could do that forever, Quaranir thought he'd never have his fill of Markus's lips and tongue and teeth, and he kissed him back fervently, his initial uncertainty forgotten. He couldn't do anything wrong; everything felt so right and so amazing. They cuddled and snogged and Quaranir rocked his hips against Markus's upper thigh, his cock leaving a slick, hot trail in the fine dark hairs. Markus was poking him damply in his stomach and making soft, hungry sounds at the back of his throat.

Quaranir hooked a leg over Markus's hip, and Markus pressed up against him harder, his hands flexing and gripping Quaranir's shoulders, stroking his hair, and his neck. Quaranir sucked at his bottom lip and earned a groan in response. He could hear Markus's breathing quicken, and he stroked and kissed and hugged him, trying to coax more noises out – they seemed to collect in the pit of his stomach.

And Markus flung his head back, eyes shut, mouth open and his fingers dug in to Quaranir's shoulders, and Quarainr held his breath as he watched his young lover come, thrusting against him hard enough to bruise, and then easily, slippery. "Gods!" Markus sobbed and then groaned and smiled as he opened his eyes, "Quaranir. You're so-" He didn't even try to finish, instead kissing him again, feverishly. "That was, you're so amazing," he muttered between punishing kisses.

Markus rolled off to the side, looking at the mess he'd made on Quaranir's gleaming skin with an air of satisfaction. His gaze travelled lower, to where the elf's cock twitched undaunted by the change in temperature that raised goosebumps on Quaranir's arms and legs. Markus reached down and gave him one long, languorous stroke that left Quaranir shuddering and his hand slick. He looked at his hand for a few moments and just when Quaranir was going to protest that he was being embarrassing, he touched his index finger with the tip of his tongue.

Quaranir swallowed, hard, and his cock jumped. Markus must have noticed, because he met his eyes with a sly look, and shuffled down the bed to rest his forearms on Quaranir's thigh.

"Oh, please." Quaranir made the conscious decision that he wasn't going to be too proud to beg.

Markus didn't make him beg for long. He licked his lips and then wrapped them around Quaranir's cock, gently at first, mindful of his teeth, but when Quaranir gasped and tugged at a handful of his hair, he grew bolder, sucking harder and Quaranir could feel the head butting against the inside of Markus's cheek as he tried to take in as much of his length as he could.

Quaranir lifted his head to watch, and almost instantly dropped it back on the pillow as the sight of Markus with spit running over his fingers and Quaranirs' cock making his cheek bulge tipped him over the edge. His hips lifted off the bed and he bit down hard on his own fingers, trying not to yell, the pain doing nothing to cut the pleasure that washed over him.

"Awk! Hell!" Markus spluttered and coughed and when Quaranir sank back into the bed with a groan and then lifted his head, he saw Markus wiping his face on his arm and sticking his tongue out.

"What's wrong?" Quaranir asked, worried.

Markus was quick to reassure him, scooting back up to hug him and kiss his chin. "Nothing, nothing, it's all right. Just not my favourite flavour." He grinned at him, "It was worth it though."

They crawled under the blankets and curled around each other, dozing until the smell of cooking and their own rumbling stomachs drove them out of bed and into their clothes to stumble out into the inn for dinner.

Everyone else there was giving them knowing and indulgent looks but Quaranir realised he didn't care. He had the most beautiful, amazing man at his side, and he was clearly the luckiest Mer in Skyrim. They shared shy, pleased smiles and affectionate glances and tomorrow seemed a long, long way away.

They didn't stay up to listen to the bard, they went back to bed as soon as dinner had settled, and this time the clothes came off without shyness or hesitation, and Quaranir bent his head over Markus's lap while he stroked his hair, and he nearly made himself sick in his efforts to please, but to hear his name choked out like that was worth every moment.

They slept deeply but not for long, waking up every few hours to make sure the other was still there, and to touch him and mumble in his ear.

"I should go to the library," Markus said, one arm around Quaranir's shoulders, as he looked at the ceiling. "It shouldn't take long."

"Mm, alright. I should keep an eye on things while you do. Make sure nothing happens."

"I just hope no more dragons show up. Come on, let's get moving." Markus reluctantly disentangled himself, and spent the next ten minutes strapping himself into his armour while Quaranir stretched out on the bed and watched, reflecting that robes had their advantages.

While Markus went to the College, Quaranir walked around Winterhold, keeping a sharp and practised eye out for anomalies. But all remained quiet, and Markus returned with a couple of large books under his arm.

"How did it go?" Quaranir asked, when Markus returned.

"It was a lot easier than I expected; he didn't even send me to some ruin somewhere to fetch a lost staff or anything, he just gave me the books." Markus blinked, evidentially surprised. "I can't read one, though. I need to find the guy who wrote it, luckily they told me where he is as well." His face fell, "I bet he'll send me off into some mouldy crypt to retrieve something though."

"And you didn't notice anything strange?" Quaranir was taking notes in one of his notebooks.

"What are you kidding? Everything's strange in there. You're the only mage I've met who's not completely weird. And they think I'm one of them. They gave me a class schedule, and told me there's a field trip to Saarthal or somewhere." Markus shrugged.

Quaranir, however, shut his book with a snap. "They want you to go to Saarthal?" he asked urgently.

"Yeah. Why?"

Quaranir snapped his fingers, "That's it! That's what you're supposed to do."

"What, to cause the horrible thing to happen?"

"Yes. I'm sure of it."

"Well that's easy," Markus declared. "I wasn't going to go anyway, but now I definitely won't go. Problem solved." He grinned at Quaranir, hopeful and helpful as always.

Quaranir stared at him. "Yes, solved," he said softly.

"What? Why are you looking at me like that?"

Quaranir cleared his throat. It felt like an iron band was constricting his chest. "Well, that's it. My job here is done; we know what fate had in store, and we know how to avoid it." Markus was still staring at him, and Quaranir thought he saw an echo of the young man, a boy really, who he'd first seen through the manascope, that same fear. "I have to go back."

"What?" Markus physically recoiled from the idea. "What?" he repeated, his dark eyes starting to shimmer with furious unshed tears. "Just like that?"

Quaranir cast his mind about desperately for another option, but could only shrug helplessly. "I'm not supposed to interfere, to even talk to you. I never was. All this was a mistak-"

"No it wasn't!" Markus actually reached over and put a gauntleted hand over his mouth. "It was not." He glared, jaw set. He lowered his hand and took a deep, shuddering breath. He looked up into Quaranir's eyes with sudden determination and drew a dagger. Quaranir took an instinctive step back, but it was to his own brow that he raised it.

"You said you used my hair to set your machine, didn't you?" He sliced through the braid at his temple and held it out. "Take it," he said. "That's enough, isn't it? Maybe you can come back, find me."

Quaranir nodded, silenced by the gesture, and reached out to take the braided locks from Markus's hand. Markus grabbed him and pulled him into an embrace, the books falling unheeded for now into the snow. Quaranir squeezed his eyes shut and hugged him with all his strength.

"I wish you all the best in your battles with the dragons," Quaranir said, gazing into his eyes. "Please be careful."

"Yeah. Good luck with the psychic stuff. Don't work too hard. I...you know." His smile twisted painfully and he pressed his lips against Quaranir's briefly.

Quaranir nodded. He knew.


	9. Chapter 9

Markus had picked up the odd habit of turning his head to the side every so often. He kept looking for his braid, and then remembering why he no longer had it. At least his foray into Blackreach had taken his mind off the whole thing.

Now he was on his way out, riding the elevator upwards for what seemed like miles. He sprawled against one of the walls, feeling the vibrations through his back and legs and trying not to think about the endless drop below the metal floor. He'd found the Elder Scroll, and had made the mistake of looking at it. It had made his head ache and brought tears of cosmic bewilderment to his eyes.

He was almost asleep when the machine juddered to a halt, and cold, fresh air stabbed at his sinuses. It woke him up at least, and he blinked at the sunlight reflecting off the snow. Too bright out here. Too cold. He hefted his pack onto his back and hauled himself to his feet. Divines knew where he was; certainly miles from where he'd entered.

He groaned at the thought of the long walk back down the mountain and stumbled over the first snowdrift, falling to his knees.

"Markus!"

Oh, listen to that; he was hallucinating through his ears. And then someone had practically landed on top of him and was hugging his head. He knew those robes. And that voice.

"Quaranir? Hey, stop. Can't breathe-" He tilted his head up and was dazzled by blonde hair and green eyes set against a rare blue sky. "It _is_ you."

"I couldn't work out where you were," he said. "The things I saw through the manascope were amazing, but I wasn't game to guess and end up stuck inside a mountain."

"Blackreach," Markus said. "Wait, what are you doing here? You said you had to go back and be psychic."

"Yes, well, that." Quaranir released him and sat back. "I asked for a sabbatical."

"That's it? And they said yes?"

"Actually no. They want at least five years notice for that sort of thing." He shrugged, "I missed you. And then I realised I'm a Psijic Monk; master of the arts of mysticism. How were they going to stop me leaving?"

Markus stared at him for a few moments and then cracked up. "You ran away! Hah! You bad monk you."

"I took some research with me," he said defensively. "So I'll be doing some work while I'm here."

"While you're here? How long are you staying?" Markus asked.

Quaranir shrugged, and Markus noticed his severed braid was tucked securely into his belt. "As long as you want me to be."

A slow smile spread across Markus's face. "That might be a long time."

"Yes."

"Maybe years even."

"I'm prepared for that."

Markus reached up and cupped his cheek, and Quaranir bent into the touch until he could kiss him.

"How fast can you get us down the mountain?" Markus asked, their foreheads pressed together as they grinned stupidly at each other.

"Very fast."

"Can you get us somewhere warm? Maybe with a fireplace, and a bed."

"And sweetrolls."

"And them. And then I can explain how much I missed you."

"I'd like that."

"And you can see if you can make sense of this stupid Elder Scroll-"

"Wait, _what_?"

"I'll show you later, let's just go."

Flakes of magica drifted onto the snow, and then melted away as if they'd never been.


End file.
